


Tavern in the Mists Drabbles

by silriven



Category: World of Warcraft
Genre: Amputation, Injury Recovery, M/M, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-09
Updated: 2020-05-15
Packaged: 2021-03-01 20:21:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,024
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23552947
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/silriven/pseuds/silriven
Summary: Non-sequential drabbles from Anduin's recovery from the Divine Bell injuries in the Tavern of the Mists.
Relationships: Wrathion/Anduin Wrynn
Comments: 14
Kudos: 79





	1. Prelude

_In this picture stands a man  
Far away, alone and distant  
Like a solitary field  
In some nameless foreign land.  
  
All around him points of light  
Start to dim and cease transmitting  
Shadows fell on futile games  
And then there was nothing more.  
_  
\- VNV Nation 

* * *

The Tavern in the Mists was a small inn, one would be encouraged to use the word 'rickety'; a dark, wooden structure perched precariously on the edge of a mountain that overlooked the prosperity of the Valley of the Four Winds. It was secluded, however, and it was safe from most of the perils that wandered through the continent of Pandaria, even considering the disturbing increase in Sha energy since the Horde and the Alliance had crashed upon its shores. What little danger had the misfortune of trespassing upon this area of the Veiled Stairs quickly found its end at the knife of one of the few but deadly agents of the Black Prince, the last and only known uncorrupted son of Deathwing the Destroyer, who had chosen the Tavern as his basis of operations on the misty land.

"We will be hosting a guest," Tong the Mender, the Pandaren who technically owned and operated the facility, stood with his back resting against the slick, well-worn wood of the bar in the guest's dining area of the Tavern, heavy paws crossed over the front of his broad chest.

"You frequently host many guests."

The Black Prince, the last and only known uncorrupted son of Deathwing the Destroyer himself, stood opposite of Tong, arms similarly crossed. His red eyes burned over dark bags in his mortal skin. The Prince, who called himself Wrathion, had not been sleeping well as of late, and his temper was running hot and short. Not that he wished to let this fact be known to anyone, least of all the cantankerous Pandaren who gave him and his Blacktalon agents generously discounted room and board in exchange for their services in protecting the Tavern.

"Is that all?"

"No," Tong replied, face unchanged and stony. "It is not. The guest is the Crown Prince of the Alliance. He will be accompanied by a few guards and they will be staying here for an indeterminate amount of time. My guess is at least a year, possibly more. I felt it pertinent to alert you to the increased presence of Alliance in this facility, considering your current...project."

"Ah," Wrathion replied. "I see no reason why a guest of yours should have an affect on the business of mine."

Tong cleared his throat, a rare noise that raised Wrathion's hackles. "He will not be staying here out of pleasure, but in order to access the services of the Mistweaver's Temple up the mountain."

The Mistweavers. Wrathion knew of them but little about them. He knew Tong had some kind of affiliation to them. The Tavern frequently housed pilgrims to the temple who sought the healing abilities of the monks who practiced there and to indulge in the surrounding hot springs, which were said to have healing properties. Perhaps the Alliance Prince was seeking some kind of new age therapy, a tourist interested in the exotic pleasures of the land that his father ravaged for resources.

"What is it that you want of me?" Wrathion's voice came curt and sharp. "I have little patience for riddles tonight. Tell me, what is it that you fear?"

"I need reassurance that your dealings with the Horde will not cause a disturbance," Tong said.

"You have my word," Wrathion said, raising a clawed hand to lay over his chest, above his heart. "That not a single member of the Horde will touch a hair on the precious Prince's head."

Tong's eyes burned and the Prince felt his skin crawl, despite himself. "Thank you, Prince Wrathion."

Wrathion inclined his head. "If that is all, Mender."

"Yes. That is all."

Wrathion turned and ascended the steps to his room, feeling Tong's eyes like a brand on his back. He closed the door and locked it behind him, letting his spine uncurl over the hard wood. It made no difference to him who or what Tong chose to house in the Tavern. The Mender had his business to attend to and Wrathion had his own.

_Dark rivers of green fire ran across the earth. Mortal blood and bile smeared the rocks as vicious demons marched on chipped hooves of thick iron in a never ending procession. Screams tore from the mouths of the ones who ran, the ones who tripped, the ones who died as their bones shattered under the fire and brimstone that rained down in a torrent from the sky split beneath the looming planet that hung like a second moon amongst the stars in the otherwise calm and indifferent night._

Wrathion's talons burst from the tips of his fingers and dug into the wood behind him. He grimaced and took a deep breath through his sharp teeth, holding it in for a few moments as the memory of the nightmare passed as quickly as it had set upon him. His heart was pounding in his chest as if he were under attack, but there was nothing in the immediate area to fear, and with a few measured breaths his pulse began to slow.

He supposed that he needed rest. When was the last time he had slept? He found that he couldn't recall. The bed at the other end of the room seemed very far away and he found himself sinking instead to the floor in front of the door, the back of his head knocking against the wood on his way down. He stared out the window into the misty night and thought of how cool the evening air had been on his cheek earlier when he had ascended the Stairs on his way home. Home. He was home. His chin dipped into his collarbone and he let his eyes close. His body began to relax, even as he felt a distant worry nagging in the back of his mind that in the morning, he would regret letting himself sleep on the hardwood floor in the morning when he woke to his mortal bones aching.


	2. Warmth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one takes place a significant amount of time after the drabble from the first chapter. These are probably going to be written as ideas come to me, so it's going to be out of order. As I go along, I'll probably re-arrange the chapters so that everything's more or less in sequential. Hopefully it won't be too confusing!

Winters in Pandaria were short but harsh. Almost overnight, the temperature had plummeted and Wrathion would wake to frost coating the Tavern grounds. He found himself spending more time curled in a chair by the water boiler in his office rather than sitting at his desk. He was grateful that he had chosen a residency for Blacktalon near hot springs, of all things, and started to end his evenings by soaking in the heat until the skin on his fingers wrinkled.

The third day into the cold snap, Anduin was absent from the dinner table. One night of absence turned into two and what's more, Wrathion began to notice that the other prince's presence around the Tavern had waned as well. This struck him as odd. The Alliance prince had reached a turning point in his recovery where he was strong enough to maneuver over short distances on crutches and seemed eager to seek out changes in scenery after spending so many months immobile in bed. Wrathion hadn't realized how accustomed he'd become to the encounters, such as turning a corner into the lounge to find the Prince at the window seat, engrossed in reading a scroll, or finding him helping Right with simple food preparation tasks in the kitchen while they exchanged small talk about the Eastern Kingdoms. His absence had created something of a noticeable hole in the daily shuffle of the Tavern's operations. After a third day passed without seeing the priest, even during meals, Wrathion's curiosity got the better of him and he couldn't help but make his way down the hall to investigate.

"How is Prince Anduin this evening?" Wrathion asked the guards, who were drinking sake and playing a card game outside the door. "Has he already retired for the night?"

"Where else would he be?" one of the guards replied without looking up from the spread in his hand.

Wrathion felt the heat rise at the nape of his neck but managed to keep his expression under control. "Is he up for visitors?"

"Even if he wasn't, I don't think that's ever stopped you before, now, has it?"

Wrathion decided to interpret this as a clear, if rude, sign that he would not be hindered and made his way through the sliding door without another word.

The first thing he noticed was that the Prince's sleeping pallet was now buried beneath a significant topography of blankets. Since some strength had been restored to Anduin's primary leg and he'd started to become mobile again, the prince had moved to an extra mattress that had been brought in and laid on the floor so that there would be less danger of hurting himself while trying to maneuver in and out of the tall bedframe on his own. The original bed was still in the room, but it had been stripped of its duvet, pillows and sheets, which were now piled on top of the other blankets that had been brought in with the spare mattress. Wrathion spotted toussled, slightly greasy blond hair poking out over the pillows near the makeshift headrest. The Black Prince cleared his throat to announce his arrival.

"Good evening, Prince Anduin," he said, taking a step forward. "I hope I'm not disturbing you."

"Not at all," a slightly muffled voice came back, confirming that Anduin was, indeed, somewhere underneath the pile and alive.

"Your presence has been missed at dinner," Wrathion said as he took another quiet step toward the pallet. "I thought I would come visit to inquire about your health."

Now that he was closer, he could see part of Anduin's face. The priest was lying on his side with only his eyes and nose over the covers and was looking at a book lying open on the pillow next to the one his cheek rested on.

"Thank you for your concern," came the practiced, polite response. "As you can see, I'm fine. My appetite has waned somewhat lately, though. Probably just a side affect of the new medication."

That was when Wrathion realized that Anduin was shivering beneath the covers.

"Are you cold?" Wrathion asked before he could stop himself.

Blue eyes flickered to meet his. The priest's expression was mostly hidden, and thus difficult to read. "Yes."

This puzzled the Black Prince somewhat. The prince's bedroom felt quite warm, warmer than the office and most of the larger communal spaces in the Tavern, at least. Tong ensured that the bedrooms were well heated for winter visitors and kept plenty of hot steam circulating through the noisy radiators that ran throughout the building. But still, here was Anduin, shaking, and the fingers that slipped out to turn a page in the book looked bloodless and pale.

"May I join you this evening?" Wrathion asked. "If you're not hungry, we can share some hot tea, perhaps that will help."

Anduin's head turned at this suggestion, the hem of the blanket slipping down from his chin to reveal a guarded, contemplative look on his stubbled face. "Certainly."

Wrathion gave a small bow and briskly made his way into the kitchen, where he set a pot of water over the fireplace and rummaged through the cabinet's selection of teas. He studied the labels, sniffing several in turn while drumming his claws over the edge of the wooden cabinet door. He finally decided on a simple, un-caffeinated white tea leaf mixed with lemon peels that had what he guessed would be a soothing aroma to a tired human at the end of a cold day. After the water boiled, sending steam whistling through a small slit in the pot lid, he steeped the tea in a decorated cast iron tea kettle and selected a pair of cups to take with him. At the last minute, he also fetched a few red bean buns from the fridge to bring back to the prince's room.

Wrathion closed the sliding door behind him and made his way over to sit at the edge of the mattress, setting everything down on the floor close by. Anduin had emerged half-way from the blankets and was sitting with his back propped up against pillows next to the wall. Wrathion poured and handed him a steaming cup of the tea. The priest balanced the cup on his one knee and cradled it between his cold hands while Wrathion helped himself to a second and removed his boots.

"If you'd like, I can join you under the blankets," the dragon said. "I've been told that my body temperature runs high enough to be felt by humans, it might provide some comfort."

Anduin stared. The silence stretched out long enough for Wrathion to grow concerned that he had been too forward, and a blush started to creep underneath the faint traces of scales on his cheeks. Humans were strange about things like their proximity to others and he was never sure how to weigh when some touch was welcome or even expected and when he was overstepping some unwritten rule. But his heartbeat began to settle when Anduin finally nodded and pulled back the layers of blankets by his left side. Wrathion slid underneath and tucked the blankets around his waist, the weight of the many fabrics resting heavy across his lap. He let their shoulders brush and felt Anduin lean into him in response, tentatively, at first, then moving so that their arms were pressed together.

"Oh, you are warm," he heard the other prince murmur, shifting his leg closer under the covers.

Wrathion felt a slight flutter of pride in his breast. "Of course. It's a trait that the black dragonflight is well known for."

They sat without speaking, listening to the radiator pipes banging from a fresh wave of steam. Anduin pulled his book between them and opened it to the scrap of paper he had used to mark his page. Out of the corner of his eye, Wrathion could see the prince was pressing his palms against the hot outer ceramic surface of the tea cup, holding his skin there as long as he could stand, before pulling away red and overstimulated. Wrathion's own hands had no trouble with the heat and he was already drinking comfortably while Anduin was still skimming his lips across the tea's surface, steam rising over his face.

"I can't seem to stay warm," he heard Anduin say, finally, as he rotated his cup in his hands. "And this cold weather has increased the pain. Every morning I wake to all of my bones aching."

Wrathion lifted his arm and wrapped it around Anduin's shoulder. He felt the prince grow tense beneath him, but after a moment, relaxed against Wrathion's side, head tilting to lean into the dragon's shoulder.

"Perhaps I can send for some kind of extra heating element for you," Wrathion said, letting his hand run up and down the prince's arm. He was struck by how thin the human felt underneath the baggy fabric and it occured to him that the prince's stark reduction in body fat this winter season might have something to do with the current trouble with retaining body heat. "Some kind of portable stove, I've seen them used in the temples up on Kun-Lai."

He felt Anduin nod against his collarbone, blond hair tickling his jaw.

"If it's not too much trouble, that sounds like something I'd like to try," the priest said. 

"No trouble at all," Wrathion said. The letter he would send to his contacts the next morning was already on its way to being halfway written in his racing mind. 

"...thank you."

Anduin's hand slipped over the edge of the mattress and came back with one of the sticky bean buns. He took a large bite and within minutes had devoured it. Soon a second bun was in his hand. Wrathion smirked to himself and let his back relax completely into the pillow, listening to the sound of the other young man's heartbeat as together they read about the familiar history of the Mogu empire.


	3. Meetings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is a heavy one.

A soft breeze drifted across Anduin's face. It came from an open window, somewhere, that he couldn't see. He had been staring at the ceiling for an indeterminate amount of time as he had been for an uncountable number of days, studying the same thin year lines and rough knots in the wood panels. It hurt to move his head, so he didn't. It hurt to breathe, but he had no choice in that. His limbs were useless weights. His head was swimming in a fog of painkillers and throbbing from a persistent dehydration headache. The cool air caressing the sweat-soaked skin on his bandaged, bruised face was a welcome relief from the monotony. It smelled, faintly, of grass and damp rain.

The last thing he could remember, before the pain started, was the enraged face of Garrosh Hellscream charging at him. The smile curling across the yellow fangs that jutted up from his thick lower lip and the racket of breaking brass and bones. When Anduin next came to, he could barely register the shape of the Alliance's champion kneeling before him. Through the iron taste of blood swelling in his mouth, he managed to draw their attention to the fact that he was still alive and that there was a signal flare gun in his bag.

As he slid in and out of consciousness, vaguely aware of the violent cornflower blue light of a mage's portal, then his father's grizzled, hulking form kneeling by his side, he assumed that the pain he felt in those initial moments would be the worst of it. But it was nothing compared to the prolonged days that lay ahead.

Velen had been summoned. At first, Anduin had been immensely grateful to see his mentor. He was hopeful that Velen would be able to heal him. He expected that the agony would dissipate with a few simple prayers. The touch of the Light flowing through the old Draenei into his body was, at least initially, a small, familiar relief. But as time passed, Anduin found himself become increasingly, painfully awake and aware of the repairs being done to his utterly broken body.

At some point he found himself unable to loose consciousness but in so much pain that he was openly sobbing and pleading for the old draenei to simply let him die. Over time, his begging and pleading reduced to feral screams of agony until his throat became raw and he could barely swallow. Even those noises abated from his own exhaustion and he fell into a numb stupor, tears leaking out of the corners of his eyes while his veins and his bones continued to burn with holy Light.

It did end, though. Through the film of grit and tears in his eyes, he saw the Draenei's dark face, tired and exhausted in a way he had never seen before.

"I have done all that I can," the Prophet said, his gentle voice weary and strained. "I cannot put you through any more of this. May the Naaru forgive me for what I have already done to keep you with us a little while longer."

Anduin felt the tips of Velen's long fingers press to his forehead and with a prayer, the Prophet at last sent him into a deep, blissful unconsciousness.

His journey through the fog continued to ebb and flow, the shock of pain in his body would lift him up as soon as it would knock him down. He longed for his father. More than anything, he wanted to say goodbye. When he was lucid enough to acknowledge the presence of another person by his side, though, he couldn't muster up the strength to ask for him by name. Velen continued to drift in and out, offering prayers and words of encouragement, but the prince found it difficult to process the individual words, even if he understood their intention from the tone of the draenei's voice. Although Velen did not attempt to use the Light again to try and heal him, the residue from the extended days-long healing session continued to burn painfully in his body, like his very bones and tissue had become radioactive with it. This was the worst of it, by far, in those early days. The feeling that had brought him comfort in the past had become a form of torture. The aching in his bones and tissue depended on the strength of the painkiller the field medics were pumping into him, but there was no relief from the Light's burning. It made him afraid to seek consolation in prayer, for fear of his own ability to call the Light into his body, spurring the intensity of the feeling.

"Human bodies are fragile," he heard Velen say, at some point. "But they have an incredible ability to repair themselves. Have faith, he may still get through this."

"But what kind of life--"

Anduin hallucinated that his mother was kneeling by his side, her ageless face with blue eyes the same as it was in the familiar oil painting that seemed an incomprehensible distance away, stroking his forehead with chilled fingers. She said only one thing to him, that he needed to stand on two feet at the edge of Mason's Folly. Then she was gone.

Relief came in the form of mist, with a cool, pale green light. He groaned from the alleviation of tension from his spine and opened his eyes to the faces of three pandaren women standing around him, an elderly matron, a middle-aged mistweaver, and a youth who couldn't have been more than a teenager. They were bathed in the eerie green light of the mist that enveloped his body. The youngest caught his eye, and startled by the sight of his own reflection in her wide gaze, he passed out once again.

"Prince Anduin."

A cool cloth on his forehead. The room slowly coming back into focus. He realized was one of the mistweavers standing by his side.

"Can you speak, Prince Anduin?"

His mouth was dry and he barely had the strength to move his jaw, but he managed to croak out a word.

"Yes."

The pandaren smiled, pressing a second damp cloth to his cheek. It smelled faintly of lavender. "Very good, your highness."

He tried again.

"Where...?"

"You are in a bedroom in the Tavern in the Mists," the mistweaver said, her voice low and soft as she continued to sponge his neck and parts of his shoulders. "On the Veiled Stair, near the Valley of the Four Winds."

The location meant little to him. He was familiar with the Valley and had heard of the Stairs, but failed to conjure an image of what they looked like.

"I don't wish to overwhelm you," the mistweaver continued. "Please just know that you will be safe here, you are in the care of the Mistweavers of the Veiled Temple. We will be nursing you back to health. The pandaren who keeps this inn, Tong, will see to your daily needs. You've undergone a significant amount of trauma, for now we just want you to focus on resting as best you can while we assess what must be done. In the meantime, we will try to relieve your pain as much as possible."

Anduin felt himself begin to tremble uncontrollably. The mistweaver stopped the sponge bath and removed the cloth from his forehead, pulling the covers over him.

The mistweavers' healing magic was unlike anything Anduin had ever experienced. Healing with the Light was quick and hot, it either seared and cauterized or else it warmed and soothed. The mists worked slowly, ebbing and flowing through his limbs in a movement so subtle that he could barely tell what the affects were as they happened. Traces lingered on his skin even after the weavers had finished casting, providing temporary relief to the bruising and stinging open wounds. Despite the respite that the mist provided, he couldn't seem to shake the feeling that overall, he was getting worse. A fever had taken hold and he spent his waking hours sweating and shaking.

He awoke to find a group of mistweavers clustered around his exposed body. They seemed to be focused on his right side. From his angle lying flat on his back, head just supported by a soft pillow, he couldn't see himself, for which he was grateful. One of the weavers approached to stand by his head, laying a paw on his shoulder.

"Prince Anduin," she said. "Can you hear me?"

"Yes," he rasped.

"We'll need to bring in a surgeon," said the mistweaver. "The worst of the damage is concentrated in your right leg. It is beyond our ability to repair and the gangrene will continue to spread as long as it is still attached."

It took a moment to fully register the impact of the mistweaver's words. For a moment, the ceiling reeled as his vision spun.

"I understand," he managed to say.

He barely noticed any change, from before he went under to waking up after. He still seemed to feel shooting pain running from thigh to toe in a leg that he knew was no longer there, as ridiculous as it seemed. The fever did abate, though, and it was easier to stay awake for extended periods of time, although the cycle that he used to know as sleep and waking was skewed. Sometimes he would wake with the sun illuminating the room, other times it would be dark and moonlit. The presence of the mistweavers often stirred him from his sleep, as would Tong the Mender who checked on him frequently. The strange days had settled into a kind of routine, enough to allow for boredom. He was unable to move, or read, or do anything but lay in bed and watch the patterns of light change on the ceiling. He was so used to the lull that the sound of a new voice startled him from his half-doze.

"Prince Anduin Wrynn of the Alliance?"

The sound came from where he knew there was a door, but he hadn't yet been able to turn his head to see it. Whoever it was lingered there, out of his line of sight.

"Yes," Anduin said to the ceiling.

There was a pause, long enough where the priest started to wonder if his bored subconscious had conjured the voice.

"Forgive me for intruding," the very much real voice continued, now sounding like it was a little closer. "I wanted to pay you a visit in order to introduce myself."

Anduin couldn't think of what to say. He was hesitant to reveal to the speaker that he was incapable of turning his head, but was beginning to feel uncomfortable that he couldn't see them.

"I am The Black Prince," the voice announced. "The last remaining member of the Black Dragonflight, the uncorrupted son of Neltharion the Earth-Warder, who died as Deathwing the Destroyer, and Nyxondra. I have chosen to go by the name of Wrathion."

A memory stirred, old rumors that a Black Dragon was wandering Pandaria's shores, investigating ancient Titan relics. This was apparently where said dragon had been staging his operations.

"Pleased to make your acquaintance," Anduin's old training now caused words to slip out unchecked from his dry throat. "Forgive me for not getting up to greet you properly."

As another pause stretched out between them, Anduin felt his face grow flushed from the realization of just how absurd this courtly statement of courtesy sounded in his situation. Then, all at once, he noticed that he could now see the visitor out of the corner of his eye. His chest tightened from surprise. He hadn't heard the sound of footsteps approaching, the dragon had seemingly glided across the floor. His mortal form looked more or less human, tall and lean, dressed in a white tunic with soft dark striped pants. A white turban with maroon and gold adornments hid most of his hair, some strands of which fell dark and curled over the frame of his forehead. The eyes were unmistakable. Bright, red, glowing, they could only have belonged to a dragon.

"Don't be ridiculous," the Black Prince said. "I wouldn't expect that of you given the state you're in."

He was holding a book in the crook of his arm, crossed over his chest, which he now unfolded and held aloft.

"I wanted to bring you this as a welcome gift," he explained. "But it seems it'll be of little use to you for the time being."

"I appreciate your consideration," Anduin replied.

The Black Prince took a step closer to the bed so that he could put the book on the bedside table. He remained there, studying Anduin's body. Anduin wished that he hadn't asked the mistweavers to leave his chest and arms uncovered by the quilt. He had been complaining about itching caused by the stitches and thought that removing the pressure and heat from the blankets would provide some relief, which it hadn't.

"There was some commotion yesterday," the Black Prince said. "Something about a doctor. I thought it odd, usually patients are only seen by the ones who use the mists."

"That was for me," Anduin said. "They amputated one of my legs."

The red gaze narrowed, heavy brows knitting together. "That is absolutely brutal. How will you walk?"

"That," Anduin found himself saying. "Is a question I would also like to know the answer to."

The Black Prince then leaned over the bed, his face coming much closer than Anduin would have felt comfortable with had it been one of the mistweavers administering care, never mind a stranger who had just introduced himself moments before. The look on his face was strange, the expression was tight, lines pulled like a spring ready to loosen. He was close enough where Anduin could now see a strange, red vapor emanating from the Black Prince's eyes and traces of scales on the bones of his cheeks. 

"Forgive me for being blunt," the Black Prince said, slowly. "But do you expect to live through this?"

Anduin realized his heart was now pounding in his chest, pulse raging in his throat. An old, long-suppressed memory of another black dragon surfaced and he could do nothing to quiet the fear ripping through him. Katrana Prestor's enraged face looming over him, screaming, with both hands tight around his arms, claws digging and twisting into old bruises that would be hidden by the long sleeves of his tunic. The full weight of his current state of helplessness came crashing down and he realized that all this black dragon would have to do to put an end to the Wrynn line was pick up a pillow, rest it over his face, and wait for the breath to leave his body.

The last thing he heard before passing out was his name repeated three times, each each iteration sounding more urgent than the last.

He woke to the smell of sharp herbs and Tong sitting by his side. The pandaren was performing his bi-weekly routine of changing the bandages and applying fresh antiseptic to the stitched wounds. 

"Ah, you're awake," Tong said. "What did that rogue do to you?"

"Rogue?" Anduin croaked.

"Wrathion," Tong stated. "Was he bothering you?"

"No," Anduin said, quickly. "No, he..."

His voice cracked and he coughed, wincing at the pain as his neck buckled. Tears pricked in the corners of his eye.

"Easy," Tong put a hand gently on his arm. "Breathe. Inhale for one, two, three four, hold. Exhale for one, two, three four. Hold. Inhale for one, two..."

Anduin did his best to follow the instructions and gradually the coughing abated and his heartbeat settled. He resumed staring at the ceiling, wincing from the sting of Tong pulling crusty bandages back from his skin.

"Am I going to die?"

Tong looked up at the question. His heavy brows were drawn low over his small, sharp eyes and mouth was pulled in a deep frown.

"Not if I can help it," he said, finally. "You will live and you will walk again. I promise you that."


	4. Nourishment

The apple orchards in the valley were ripening, thickening the air thick with their sweet, floral scent. Right enlisted the Black Prince's help in harvesting some of the bounty. The turn of seasons meant restocking their stores with fresh ingredients that would provide a welcome change in the tastes of their routine meals. Wrathion suspected, however, that the real reason for this particular expedition had more to do with his foul mood blackening the halls of the Tavern in the Mists and Right's desire to chase it away with fresh air and exercise. He had been holed up in his study for a week straight, fuming over hand-inked numerical symbols on stacks of delicate parchment, filing the room with his potent dragon's smoke and crusty tea cups, coming out only when meals were served to scarf down as few nutrients as he could get away with and excuse himself well before it was considered polite by tiresome mortal standards to do so.

The change of pace was welcome, though, Wrathion had to grudgingly admit as he trudged down the hills and into the valley, bearing an empty basket in his arms and watching Right's long, reddish-brown braid swing back and forth across her back. As they slipped between the wilting boughs of the pink and green trees, he found himself spewing the information he had been stewing over, his words bursting like a geyser that had boiled over from under the earth. Right listened patiently as her calloused hands worked, as she had always done during times like these, offering a low hum of sympathy only when he paused to take a breath, which was not often.

By the time Wrathion had reached the end of his winding train of thought, Right's face was coated in a thin sheen of sweat. She wiped her forehead with the back of her hand, wisps of hair sticking at odd angles to her temples, and planted her palms on her hips as she stared at him.

"Remind me again," she said. "Why you've decided to abandon a proper sleep routine until you have decoded the personal language of an ancient Pandaren mathematician?"

"Astronomer," Wrathion corrected in a sharp, frustrated voice before he could stop himself. "She was well immersed in the scientific social spheres of the day and a great many trains of thought from the elbows she rubbed during this era influenced her later work. She become a recluse in the Dread Wastes for the duration of her later career."

Right waited patiently as he paced, her undivided attention on him and him alone as he continued to rattle off the list of facts that he had been practically bouncing off the walls with, alone.

"Pandaren astronomers are not only astutely attuned to the celestial alignment of the heavenly bodies but how those alignments affect the physical forces on this continent and, indeed, all of Azeroth," Wrathion ranted, a claw stirring the air above his head as if he were swirling the stream of those very gravitational orbits. "Seunju was one of the earliest to predict the existence of twin Void holes at the center of the galaxy that Azeroth orbits, that the very star that warms these orchards and that we now spiral towards as we speak also orbits around. Although her dictation was crude and she did not have the benefit of current relativity theories, her raw mathematics is quite sound. In fact, many of her notes were plagiarized and published under the name of a different astronomer, whose work I had been tearing my hair over for months, mistakenly thinking that _his_ notes would lead me to the answers I seek about how the Void entwines with gravity."

Smoke was now pouring black and hot from his nostrils and mouth, dissipating into the dappled sunlight that fell through the gaps in the rustling leaves. Wrathion was left with an empty sense of frustration, having talked himself out. Right stepped away from her basket and crossed the distance between them, pulling him into an embrace, which he relaxed into after a moment's hesitation.

"My Prince, you must get more sleep," she said, stroking his hair like she used to do more frequently when he was a smaller whelp. "The secrets of Azeroth will not obfuscate themselves from you if they discover that you are getting a full night's rest."

A kind of growling noise rose in Wrathion's chest as he relaxed into the pressure from Right's fingers running across his scalp. Heat radiated from his body, the orchard air shimmering as the molecules excited around them. It was not the studying that kept him up at night.

"The Burning Legion does not sleep," he said.

"The Burning Legion has not slept for millennia," Right replied. "It will make no difference to them if the Black Prince does."

Wrathion lifted his own hands to rest lightly against her back and let his dark, curled head fall on her shoulder. She smelled very human, and also of the lingering burn of oil she had used to cook breakfast.

"You should put down your reading for today," he heard her say. "Help me peel these apples in the kitchen so I can make a pie. Left and I are going to scout for rabbits, later. You should come with us. The fresh air might clear your head and the exercise may help you to sleep more soundly tonight."

Wrathion said nothing. He leaned away and Right released him, turning to pick up her basket. The Black Prince followed her lead and they made their way back up the mountainside and into the Tavern's rear door, which lead to the kitchen.

Wrathion froze at the unfamiliar sight of a strange man standing at the counter next to the stove. It took him a moment to recognize the figure as Anduin Wrynn, standing upright. He was balancing on his one leg, hunched over with bony elbows resting on the counter to support himself as he cut slices of Mogu'shan cheese from a block over a cutting board. His crutches were also leaning against the counter, within arm's reach. The sight was so surreal that Wrathion felt as if Pandaria itself had tipped askew from the axis of Azeroth.

"Good to see you up and about, Prince Anduin," Right said.

The prince turned his head so that his thin face, framed by dirty blond bangs, peered at them from over his shoulder. Wrathion felt his chest burn under the simple smile he gave to both of them in turn. A faint blush had spread across the Alliance prince's face and ears from the compliment.

"Thank you," he said. "Please, just Anduin is fine."

Right set her basket down on the table, dusting slivers of fiber from her fingers before plucking an armful of fruit into the crook of her elbow.

"We were about to enjoy some of these fresh apples from the orchard," she said, walking over to the sink. "Would you care to join us?"

"Yes, certainly," Anduin said, eyes ravenous as he focused on the fruit. "You don't mind the intrusion?"

"Not at all," Right replied. She let the apples tumble into a silver colander and began to pump fresh water from the spigot to clean them.

"I can cut up some extra slices of this, then, for all of us," Anduin said, returning to his work with the knife.

"Thank you, your--Anduin. Black Prince?"

Wrathion sharply looked up at the sound of his own title.

"Would you please set your bounty down next to mine? I think there's enough room on the table."

Wrathion felt his own face catch fire as he met his bodyguard's large, intelligent brown eyes and realized that he had been standing, stock still, with his mouth open the entire time. He followed Right's request, then used his now unoccupied hands to smooth the front of his tunic, hands moving to ensure that his turban and belt were situated in the precise way that he wanted them to be on his head and hips.

"I will fetch something to drink," he announced.

"Excellent idea, Sir," Right replied.

As he walked down the hall, his mind's eye was still consumed by the sight of Anduin standing in the kitchen. By most accounts, it had been dubious that the Alliance prince would live to see the following summer, nevermind walk. It was a topic in constant rotation amongst the Blacktalons during game nights. Only Tong seemed stubborn in his insistance that their dark predictions would not come to pass. Wrathion had fallen in the camp that death was most likely, trying, in vain, to steel himself from the attachment and worry for the prince's health that seemed to be growing in the young dragon like a weed. Now here he was, having to wrap his head around the new sight of the priest teetering around the kitchen like a newborn faun.

Humans were strange creatures.

Wrathion rubbed his hand subconsciously over his own arm, fingering the rings of scar tissue beneath the sleeve. There was some truth in Right's words, he needed to get more sleep. His brain was clearly addled and not functioning at full capacity.

The Black Prince hoped over the wooden bar and rummaged around until he found a bottle of golden Pandaren mead. Back in the kitchen, Right had arranged a bowl of apples on the table with a jar of honey and a shaker filled with red-brown cinnamon. Wrathion set the mead down, fetched three glasses from the cabinet, and busied himself with the task of pouring.

"I can bring this over to the table," Right said, gesturing to the neat slices of cheese.

"Thank you," Anduin said, putting the knife down to reach for his crutches.

Every movement Anduin made, apart from the lurching hops he took with the crutches, was slow and careful. He was clearly still in a great deal of pain and could barely managed to conceal the strain in his face as he eased his bony frame into a chair. But he met Wrathion's gaze with a half-smile when he noticed the dragon watching.

"Something on your mind, Black Prince?" he asked.

Wrathion brought his chin to rest on his hand, propped up on one elbow resting on the table as he returned the smile with a smirk, wracking his brain for something to say.

"There's always something on my mind, Anduin Wrynn," he countered.

Gods, he was tired. And slow.

"Care to elaborate on some of the details?" Anduin folded his own arms on the surface of the table, a very un-princely gesture.

Wrathion fished around his thoughts and pulled at the first non fel-related thing that he came across. "Matrices."

A dark blond brow arched. "Mathematics?"

"Yes," Wrathion spread his hands. "A series of very simple matrix transformations, written in an ancient Pandaren astronomer's personal code."

He glanced at Right, hoping that she would save him from himself, but Right was busy bringing the cheese and apples over to the table and doing too good of a job pretending that she could not hear him steer himself towards a verbal cliff.

"Her journals are a very important piece of research," Wrathion explained. "But most of her later work is written using a cypher that she invented to prevent snooping colleagues from stealing her ideas. I believe I can use these specific equations as a key to decode the rest, if I can crack them."

"Sounds like quite the project," Anduin replied. His eyes were focused on the food. Right had taken a seat and was passing around the platters.

"Not nearly as much as obtaining the journals were," Wrathion said, watching as Anduin piled his plate with cheese and a large handful of apple slices. He followed Right's example and applied a modest dusting of cinnamon to half, spooning a generous glob of honey to drizzle over the rest. "That took almost a year of reverse-engineering the politics of an ancient Pandaren science community's social drama."

Anduin's face melted with pleasure as he bit into his first slice of apple with a loud, crisp crunch. Wrathion found himself staring, transfixed, as he watched the priest chew.

"It's been so long since I've had fresh fruit," the Alliance prince said, once he had swallowed. “I haven’t been able to stomach anything but broth for months. Not that it was bad, I mean, Tong is an excellent cook."

“I’m sure as good as his soup is, it doesn't compare to solid food," Right noted, taking her own generous bite of a honey-drizzled apple.

"No, I'm afraid it doesn't," Anduin said with a smile. He turned to Wrathion and asked, before stuffing three more slices into his mouth, "Where did you find those journals?"

"An attic," Wrathion explained, watching as Anduin tore his way through the rest of the food on his plate. "I had mistakenly attributed them to a different author, a lot of time was wasted combing through libraries all over this continent. But I managed to stumble into a distance relative, by chance, in a brewery, of all places."

Right had taken out her knife and was adding fresh apple slices to Anduin's nearly-empty plate. The prince smiled and bobbed his head in thanks as he continued to chew through the food in his full mouth.

"This relative directed me to a distant cousin," Wrathion said, stroking the patch of hair on his chin as he watched. "Who was able to get in touch with a different relation who owned the family farm. After a tedious letter-writing campaign, I managed to convince them to let me search through a trove of old boxes."

Tong had two young Pandaren cubs in his care and Wrathion had occasionally seen them scarf food down too quickly at dinner, prompting hiccups and coughs and once a frightening Heimlich maneuver. Prince Anduin was putting their bottomless youthful enthusiasm to shame as he quickly finished three more apples and half of the brick of cheese, licking traces of juice and cinnamon from his fingers. Wrathion could not take his eyes away.

"Anduin," Right interrupted Wrathion mid-soliloquy, gently raising a hand. "If you and Prince Wrathion are still hungry, perhaps I can make something more substantial. There's some leftover eel in the ice box "

Wrathion realized he had not touched a single piece of food on his own plate, but he caught Right's eye and some kind of connection was made in his mind.

"Tempting," Wrathion said. "What do you say, Anduin Wrynn?"

"That sounds delicious, if it isn't too much trouble and if you and Prince Wrathion are eating as well," Anduin said, tuffs of hair sticking up as he rubbed the back of his head. "I am a bit hungry, but I wouldn't want you to trouble yourself on my account."

"Not at all," Right was already on her way to the ice box to fetch a greasy brown paper package. "If we don't cook it, it'll spoil, anyways."

Anduin turned to Wrathion and smiled. "Excellent, now I also have an excuse to bother you more about this research you're doing."

"Ah, yes, well I do enjoy droning on until you pass out from boredom, Your Highness," Wrathion quipped. 

Anduin laughed. "Nonesense. I don't have a mind for math, I'm afraid, but I do find the subject intriguing. And you have a talent for explaining these concepts that make them seem exciting."

Heat rose to the Black Prince's face, but he managed to recover and pick up his previous train of thought. In almost no time, Right had a deep pan of oil sizzling on the stove and was coating bite-sized slices of eel with a breadcrumb mixture for frying along with some leftover vegetables from the previous night's stir fry. While the kitchen filled with the smell of crisping meat, Anduin used the final apple slice on his plate to scoop up the last traces of honey and spice from the surface.

Wrathion pushed his own plate across the table towards Anduin's place setting.

Anduin caught his eye, surprised. "You're not going to finish that?"

Wrathion shrugged, lowering his gaze to distract himself with a deep swig of mead. "The promise of tempura has dulled my craving for fruit."

From the corner of his eye, the Black Prince watched Anduin give a nod of thanks and get to work. For some reason, this made him greatly satisfied.

It was like watching the morning glories on the windowsill rise to meet the sun in the morning, watching Anduin Wrynn finally eat.

He shook the sickening poetry from his head. He needed to get more sleep.


	5. Late Night

Wrathion awoke with a start to the unsettling feeling of pressure on his scaled abdomen. The disorientation took a moment to dissipate, through the dizzying fog the details of his surroundings registered. The dim light of the moon spilling in through a round, wooden window. A heavy quilt embroidered with maple leaves. Anduin Wrynn's warm stomach underneath him and his palm resting on top of him.

"Wrathion," he heard his name, again, in the prince's soft, thick sleep-laden tone. "Are you alright?"

"Yes," Wrathion replied before he had a chance to consider if he was, in fact. He pulled his wings back in from where they had been unfurled and twitching unbecomingly above his head. His twin dragon hearts were pounding in his breast and his breathing was ragged.

Anduin's hand left his side to reach across to the nightstand. A few minutes of fumbling and a soft, yellow glow spilled across the bed. Wrathion blinked his red lizard eyes and shook his head at the change in illumination, huffing smoke from his nostrils. Anduin, too, was squinting, raising one hand to shield his face as he turned back towards the Black Prince.

"Ugh," he grunted. "There, that's...better, I suppose."

"You're bleeding," Wrathion said, suddenly.

Anduin looked down. There was a gash in his forearm, running through both his soft, fair skin and the terrible lines of puckered, barely-healed scars, the blood running dark and thick from the tear. Wrathion realized then that his twin dragon hearts were pounding in his breast. A sick heat roiled in his gut.

"My prince," he said. "I'm so sorry."

Anduin looked down at his arm and seemed surprised at what he found.

"Oh," he scoffed, brushing his thumb over the cut, smearing the blood. "This is nothing."

He inhaled and began to sing a soft prayer under his breath, voice so low it was almost a hum. A holy light emitted from his fingers, enveloping the gash. Wrathion watched, enraptured, as the skin knit itself together under the warm glow, leaving only a stain on the skin which Anduin licked away with his thumb.

"There, no harm done," Anduin said with a reassuring smile that did little to calm Wrathion's nerves. "It feels good to be able to do that again without passing out."

"What happened?" Wrathion pressed.

"You were having a nightmare, I think," the Alliance prince said. "You were tossing and turning in your sleep and...you sounded as if you were in pain. I think you must've just nicked me by accident when you turned over after I roused you."

The memory of the dream came back in abrupt snippets. The Black Prince had stood on an unfamiliar, snow-frosted mountain range, his body large and unfamiliar, but not quite yet full grown. He had watched, frozen in horror, as a strange, lanky body rose from the corpse of a falling star that had hit the planet's surface a few miles away. The creature had no face or other distinguishing features apart from its impossibly long limbs and a hole in its chest where its lungs should have been. Wrathion couldn't run. The stones beneath his feet gave way underneath and sucked at his feet with every step while the creature closed the distance between them. Its open chest dripped with sulfuric fel-fire.

"I see," Wrathion said, shaking his neck out. "I was supposed to be helping you sleep tonight and here I am, waking you up. I should leave you to rest."

"No," Anduin said quickly, hand reaching out to put a hand on his tiny shoulder. "Please, you don't have to leave, it's fine. Nightmares happen. I could have just as easily kicked you off the bed."

Wrathion snorted at the very undignified image of his whelp body tumbling off the side and landing on the floor. But he turned about in Anduin's lap and settled back down, kneading at the bedspread with his claws and draping his tail across the prince's leg. He felt Anduin's finger run across the scales at his side.

"Is this alright?" Anduin asked, quietly.

The gesture was, Wrathion had to admit, comforting.

"Yes," he said. "How are you feeling?"

"Better," Anduin said, one hand rising to briefly brush over his own chest. "I think the sleep I got did me some good. Your heat is soothing, as well."

"Good," Wrathion said. "I'm glad."

The dragon tilted his head. It sounded like the rain had stopped, at least. He could also perceive a change in the atmosphere that would have brought some relief to the fractures in Anduin's bones.

Anduin reached over and turned off the lamp, enclosing them in darkness. Wrathion felt Anduin shift back to lie against the pillows, hearing a small groan of relief as he settled. His hands returned to running across Wrathion's scales, fingers gently tracing the contours of his spine. A rumbling sound began to reverberate in the dragon's chest. He heard a small chuckle return from Anduin.

Eventually, sleep returned. The nightmare did not.


End file.
